Free Cabin Fever: The sizzling secrets of a Virgin air hostess… by Mandy Smith Page A

on stewards’ laps, sexual innuendos flying around the room. Everyone was chatting and laughing like they’d known each other for years. Martin and Tom, who I’d since learned was our first officer on the way out, returned from the bar with two trays full of Manhattans. “Time to get pished,” Martin announced, handing out drinks. “Get ’em down yer.”
    I looked at Laura. “Do you know everybody here?” I asked.
    “One or two,” said Laura, between gulps of Manhattan. “Never met any of the others though. You rarely fly with people you know unless you put in a request. So, more often than not, you meet a whole new set of people on every trip. It’s crazy, really;most people see the same faces every day at the office.”
    The more I spoke to Laura, the more I liked her. She was so stunning, yet she was not up herself in the slightest – and so funny and open. She told me she’d recently started dating a BA pilot called Dan, who was “proper tasty, like”, and that she was a senior crew member working in Upper Class, serving all the “posh buggers”.
    I was beginning to lose the new girl feeling. Everyone was so friendly and lively, and even the Tiffany’s girl, Sophie, was nice to me.
    Manhattans turned into Cosmopolitans, which became an assortment of cocktails and spirits. Martin managed to burn the hair off his forearm during a Flaming Sambuca accident. The drinking games started and our rabble became rowdier. Outrageous stories were being told about other crew members – tales of hot-tub orgies in the Caribbean, Mile High Club capers and riotous room parties all around the world.
    It was around 1am when we spilled, very noisily, back into the lobby of our hotel. “Right, who’s up for a room party?” said Martin. For a man in his early fifties he had incredible stamina. I’d been up for twenty-four hours at this point and this was only a one night trip. The following evening we’d be heading home, and we were not allowed to drink eight hours prior to flying. As much as I wanted to join in the fun, I didn’t want to spend my first and only day in New York sleeping off a hangover. Plus I still had to buy a calling card and phone Jonathan. It would be six in the morning at home. Jonathan would be getting up soon for his Miami flight. A sexy wake-up call from the Big Apple was most definitely on the cards.
    I made my excuses to the rest of the crew and slipped away to buy a calling card from reception.
    “Room 2204 if you change your mind, Mandy,” called Martin, stumbling into the elevator.
    The first thing I did when I got back to my room was to check under the bed and peek inside the wardrobes and bathroom – a routine we were advised to perform every single time we entered a hotel room, for safety purposes. Phew, it was all clear, no psychopaths lurking in the shadows. I kicked off my heels, sat on the edge of the bed, switched on the television and flicked through the channels, past CNN,
Frasier
,
Cheers
,
Die Hard 2
until I reached MTV, where Britney Spears was cavorting in a skimpy school uniform singing “Baby One More Time”, which seemed an appropriate song to get me in the mood for my rampant phone call.
    Ripping the cellophane packet off my phone card with my teeth, I ventured into the bathroom. I’d remembered there was a phone on the wall next to the giant tub. A luxurious bubble bath would be the ideal location for the business I had in mind. I was tipsy, but not drunk enough to drown during the act.
    Singing along to Britney I spun on the taps, poured a generous amount of bath foam under the running water and headed back to the bedroom to undress. On the TV screen Britney had been replaced by Eminem, who was grabbing his crotch while asking the real Slim Shady to stand up. I took off my jeans, off-the-shoulder black top and underwear and draped them over a chair. Then I read the instructions on the back of the calling card and sat at the dressing table to remove my make-up. The